when seasons descend our streets, cats tiger'd by schizophrenia shed color-- disrobing leaves. Our streets solidify in merits of Passage while our steps never land ahead of praise we proffer ourselves. The prey that Drives itself, infused with Now ekstases, we unbury relic caves, lost languages-- Selves struck down not sapped but infused with amber, solidified, and paved over. Matter mints whispy consequence. We don't always forget the killed cultures of November but we loose their Now to absence.